by Holly Newman
Tunning bowed; though his head stayed level enough for his eyes to remain upon Elizabeth. He licked his lips. “I am charmed, my lady,” he said smoothly.
Charmed, what an odd word for an employee to use. A chill passed over Elizabeth, and she wished she hadn’t teased St. Ryne so and had availed herself of a shawl.
St. Ryne witnessed Tunning's crude reaction to his wife’s near exposure. Damn the woman, was she lost to all sense of propriety? A curious possessive jealousy flared within his chest igniting a flame of craftiness.
“Here, my dear, you have been on your feet all this day overseeing the cleaning, please sit down.” He grabbed her elbow and propelled her to one of the chairs by the fireplace. With his free hand, he angled the chair away from the light of the fire then gently seated her. Her face was now in shadows, but to his chagrin he noted the light from the single small taper on the table by her elbow cast a glow upon her chest.
There was nothing for it but to emulate his mother. The Countess of Seaverness was the clumsiest woman of his acquaintance, probably in all England, yet through unbounded arrogance she ignored any destruction left in her wake.
“I’ll have Atheridge bring you some Madeira,” he said, swinging around sharply toward the bell pull. His momentum appeared to put him slightly off balance, and his hand shot out to break the imminent fall, knocking the candle off the table in its wake and sending globs of wax flying.
In an instant St. Ryne was on his knees, grabbing the candle and extinguishing its flame. “How absurdly clumsy of me. I do beg your pardon, my dear.”
St. Ryne faced the firelight, his back to Tunning. Elizabeth had no trouble seeing the mischief in his eyes, and her lips twisted to keep from laughing. “It has been a long day for both of us. No doubt we are both much fatigued.”
“No doubt,” he returned smoothly, replacing the candlestick on the table.
Elizabeth was now seated in shadows, and some of the tightness in St. Ryne’s chest released. He turned back to Tunning. “And now, my good man—”
Tunning coughed. “If it pleases, your lordship, I’ve a matter I’d like to bring to your attention.”
“Yes?” St. Ryne’s brow rose. He walked away from Elizabeth to sit behind the desk forcing Tunning to turn away from her as well.
“It’s about one of the tenant families, my lord. I think they should be replaced, they’re nothing but a pack of troublemakers.”
“Who are they? And why didn’t you say anything earlier today when we made the rounds?”
Tunning shifted uneasily, very aware of the fact that St. Ryne hadn’t asked him to sit as well. Maybe he didn’t have as complete an understanding of this dandy as he thought. “It’s the Humphries, my lord.”
“Humphries?” St. Ryne said in surprise.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Aren’t they at the Home farm?”
“Aye, but—”
“That is the only well-maintained and properly running farm on the estate!”
“I know, my lord, and that’s why I didn’t say anything afore. Truth is that appearance is deceptive and rooted in self-interest.” Tunning restively fingered his gold-filigreed watch chain.
“Self-interest!” St. Ryne laughed. “Self-interest like that brings in the rents.”
“Hold a moment, my lord, and let me say my piece,” he burst out gruffly, sweat glistening on the top of his bald pate.
Elizabeth and St. Ryne were surprised by his tone, albeit for different reasons. Elizabeth found the estate agent to be officious while St. Ryne surmised he was genuinely concerned about something.
“They’re rousing up the other tenants. They’ve got queer Republican notions and they’re inciting the others to revolt. Now I know,” he hurried on before St. Ryne could interrupt, “there have been Humphries at the Home farm for generations, but this lot’s bad blood. We’ll have trouble soon if they stay on. ”
St. Ryne frowned. “Why didn’t you mention this earlier?”
Elizabeth stared at him. Was he seriously thinking of turning a whole family out simply on the word of this toad?
Tunning squirmed uncomfortably. “Well, my lord, it was because they keep up a good appearance that I hesitated to say anything and I also didn’t want you to think I didn’t know my business.”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes in disbelief.
“Truth is, I went over the books this afternoon and, though I hate to admit my own carelessness, it does appear they may be shorting you on the percentages—leastways in comparison with the other tenants. They’re not giving much more than the others and, as you so noted, my lord, the Home farm is in much better condition.” Tunning had hit his stride now and his words trotted out easily. “Now, I do take the blame for not keeping a tighter rein on things here and of course, if your lordship thinks I should be replaced, I understand.” He spread his hands deprecatingly. “My only defense is the lack of interest exhibited by Sir Jeremy. I guess I slid into assuming that was a common attitude with the gentry. But now I have your measure, my lord, and I guarantee I’ll not be so remiss again!”
Elizabeth laughed silently and turned to St. Ryne to share the joke with him only to find him frowning. Surely he saw through this man!
“I don’t blame you, Tunning. This estate has been mismanaged for quite some time, and I expect it is galling to a man such as yourself to lack the authority to rectify the situation. Nonetheless, the Home farm is paying more than the others, and I’d hate to lose the revenues. This is not a matter to be decided lightly.”
“I concede that, my lord,” Tunning returned grudgingly.
“I am returning to London on the morrow. When I return, we may discuss the situation further.”
“Oh, are you, my lord?”
Elizabeth thought she detected a note of eagerness in Tunning's voice.
“Yes, though the Viscountess will be staying on to oversee the restoration of the manor house. Oh, blast, I forgot to ring for Atheridge. Would you care for a glass of port, Tunning?”
“Aye, that I would.”
“Well, pull up a chair over here.”
Tunning scuttled to obey, his mind churning over the Viscount’s attitude. He was certainly a cautious young buck, more than he’d anticipated, albeit one he remained confident he could manipulate to advantage.
A soft rap on the door preceded Atheridge’s entrance.
“Bring us some port, Atheridge, and some Madeira for the Viscountess,” requested St. Ryne.
“Very good, my lord.”
“Oh, and Atheridge,” St. Ryne added, studiously avoiding trading looks with Elizabeth, “this room is a bit drafty, please have the Viscountess’s shawl fetched.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Elizabeth cast St. Ryne a fulminating glance though truly she did feel chilled, but not, she suspected, from the air. Tunning, now sitting at ease by the desk had cast more than one assessing look in her direction, and she did not care for his intense consideration.
“Now, Tunning, as I said, I will be returning to London tomorrow. While I am gone, various tradesmen and craftsmen will be coming to Larchside. The Viscountess will be directing these worthies in the decorating and restoration of the manor. It will be your responsibility to keep an accounting and see these tradesmen are paid. It will also be yours to see that the estate is not unduly charged for the services received. In fact all bills, whether for Larchside or for the Viscountess’s personal fripperies, shall be directed to you.”
His words set Elizabeth’s teeth on edge. Yes, he had threatened to take such an action, but Elizabeth had taken it for only that, a threat. She looked over at St. Ryne to note him regarding her steadily, a smug smile on his face.
“Surely, St. Ryne, you would not wish to burden Mr. Tunning with such trivialities. I take it from your conversation there are several farms that need his close attention if they are to be made profitable. I should be quite desolate if I hampered his efforts in that direction.”
Atheridge’s re
turn with the refreshments, followed by Mrs. Atheridge bearing her shawl, interrupted her. Elizabeth accepted the shawl with ill grace and draped it around her loosely. She rose to pour, nodding a dismissal to the Atheridges.
St. Ryne had difficulty deciding which shone more brightly in the light of the candelabrum by the tray: the cleaned crystal wineglasses or Elizabeth. He sucked in his breath as she bent to pick up another glass. The hussy was near to falling out of her dress and refused to adequately cover herself with the shawl. He watched through hooded eyes as she first served Tunning then handed him a glass.
Elizabeth smiled sardonically at him then turned to find Tunning devouring her silhouette with avid eyes. A shuttered expression descended over her features. She returned to the serving tray to pick up her glass, casually drawing the end of the shawl over her shoulder and tossing it across her front to drape the other shoulder. She turned to face St. Ryne, the light of the candles haloing her hair. She gracefully lifted the glass to her lips, savoring the taste of the sweet wine.
“As I was saying, St. Ryne,” she said, returning to her chair, “I am perfectly capable of overseeing the affairs of the manor.”
“Nonsense, my dear. We both know how you lack a proper understanding as to the value of money,” St. Ryne returned smoothly. "I have on two occasions witnessed this unfortunate deficit in your education. I must insist Mr. Tunning handle the accounts.”
Tunning looked from the Viscount to his wife and back, secretly crowing. “Now, my lady, don’t fret yourself. It is no burden at all. Accounts are my business, so to speak.”
Yes, I’ll wager they are, Elizabeth thought to herself. She did not like that self-satisfied expression on his face. Before St. Ryne returned she vowed she’d closely examine his account books. If one farm could be as well maintained as they inferred, it struck her as odd that all were not. Then there was the matter of Mrs. Atheridge’s petticoats. There was something about this man she could not like. His eyes held a sneaky shrewdness. She watched him fidget with his ornate watch chain. That, like the housekeeper’s petticoats, was not in keeping with his position.
Elizabeth watched him exchange a masculine, patronizing look with her husband at her expense. It was with sheer determination that she fought an impulse to fly into anger and properly rake him down.
“I’ll come by each afternoon to advise her ladyship. I’ll see she’s not gulled. I’ll also arrange for servants.”
“I prefer to choose my own.” Her voice was rigid, coming out as it did through clenched teeth.
“Well, no offense my lady, but being new in these parts, you’d do well to be advised by me.” He leaned back in his chair and spoke like a grand gentleman dispensing favors. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll arrange that all interviews be scheduled when we have our meeting in the afternoon so you can sit in and give your opinion, too.”
‘What?” She could not fathom this man’s boundless audacity.
“He has a point, my dear,” St. Ryne interrupted smoothly, hoping to squelch the storm he saw brewing in her gold eyes. Damn the man. Though it was his intention to teach his willful wife a lesson by leaving the accounts in Tunning’s hands, he had not meant for this fellow to infer that she was a helpless ninny hammer. He also did not care for his patronizing manner. Then a thought occurred to him, and perhaps it would be another good lesson for Elizabeth.
“Justin!”
Tunning observed the soundless exchange between the Viscount and his wife. There seemed to be little love lost between the two. He’d tell the Atheridges not to fear losing their sweet deal just yet, particularly if he was able to get rid of the meddlesome Humphries who noticed too much and asked too many questions. He was a trifle annoyed that the Viscount would not allow himself to be immediately led by him; however, he considered himself a patient man and it did appear the Viscount was disposed to defer to him, a circumstance that suited Tom Tunning perfectly.
He looked at the Viscountess. There was a morsel that suited him perfectly, too. Highborn ladies were often known to participate in a dalliance with those of other classes, if for no other reason than to cuckold their husbands. If the Viscount was to make a habit of long absences away from his bride, well, Tom Tunning would just have to see what he could do to soothe the poor Viscountess’s frustrations. Several images came to his mind of a nude and writhing young woman lying beneath him. Atheridge said they slept apart on their wedding night, too.
Elizabeth did not miss the smug and hungry look on Tunning’s face and she felt a warm blush suffuse her cheeks. How dare St. Ryne put her in this position!
Elizabeth and Tunning were so caught in their own thoughts that they were startled when they realized St. Ryne was again speaking to them.
“—looks fool you. Though the Viscountess may not have a head for money, she is an intelligent woman. I trust her to choose servants wisely and furthermore, should a problem arise with which you would consult me, please speak to her before sending any messages to London. I trust her to handle even the knottiest problem.”
Elizabeth turned to St. Ryne in surprise.
Tunning grinned fatuously. “Don’t you worry, my lord, I’m sure we’ll get along famously.”
Elizabeth doubted that but kept her lips clamped shut as she contemplated St. Ryne’s last statement.
“I have no doubt of it,” her husband said, rising from his chair. “Thank you for coming, Tunning. I’ll see you on my return.”
At that, Tunning had no choice but to rise also, make his bows, and leave.
Elizabeth looked questioningly at St. Ryne, a slight look of wonder and openness on her face. Suddenly there were so many questions tumbling around in. her mind waiting to be voiced. Unfortunately they faded quickly as memories of the humiliations she’d suffered at his hands also came to mind. She closed her eyes, lifting her hand to her forehead as if to push away the confusion and clear her mind.
“If you will excuse me, Justin, I would retire. It has been, as you stated earlier, a long day.”
“Of course, my dear,” he said, offering his arm to walk her to the door. Pointedly she ignored his gesture, murmured a goodnight, and brushed past him.
St. Ryne crossed to the tray to refill his glass. He had seen her open, avid look and had hoped she was ready to open up to him. Disastrously, he also saw it fade to be replaced by a cool aloofness. Perhaps he was making it too difficult for her to be open with him. That was one of the reasons he was returning to London. Branstoke was correct. He was walking a tightrope, but there was no turning back.
This is the way to kill a wife with kindness . . .
—Act III, Scene 3
Elizabeth’s fingertips drummed restlessly, the only outward sign of her agitation. Before her on the gleaming desktop lay a short missive from St. Ryne. He had been gone two days and one night. Idly she speculated on the gossip his presence in London engendered. None to her advantage, she was convinced. Of course, the viciousness of the gossip depended entirely on whether or not St. Ryne really was in London and not elsewhere in the arms of some fair Paphian. It was particularly galling to realize she did not know her husband well enough to know if he had leanings in that direction, let alone whether he currently sported a mistress.
The letter, at least, indicated he’d seen to some business in London for he spoke of the various tradesmen and craftsmen she was to expect to descend like locusts upon the morrow. It appeared, therefore, that he had every intention of restoring Larchside to whatever pretentions of bygone splendor it might have possessed. She wondered at his efforts. Larchside was not an overly large manor house, and she surmised he possessed several finer establishments to say nothing of his expectation, not that she was one to live upon expectations for she’d never had any in her life, monetarily or emotionally.
Such thoughts, of course, always brought her full circle to the mystery of their marriage. Despite his recent eccentricities, St. Ryne had always been referred to in her hearing as a man of great address and elegance of mann
er, not in the least condescending. All in all, the polite world considered him an ideal catch.
Why he had never married was a large question in Elizabeth’s mind, though larger too was the question, why her? She was very much alive to the fact that it was not a match his family condoned, for his parents had been conspicuously absent from the wedding. The marriage became more and more curious when she fully assimilated that distressing fact. For herself, she had to own, she was strangely content. Even fencing with St. Ryne was more enjoyable than living at Rasthough House had ever been. Here, too, she was mistress. Her brow descended and a slight frown bent her lips. Unfortunately, it did not appear that the Atheridges or Tunning saw her in quite the same light.
Tunning would be here soon.
She turned slightly in her chair to look out the tall windows. The ivy that had almost obscured the glass had been pulled away that morning. Now she could look out onto the small park surrounding Larchside. The late afternoon shadows were lengthening, and the two men sent to scythe the lawn were dark silhouettes, their blades catching the sun’s light on the upswing then descending into shadow in a rhythmic dance. Watching the cadence of their motion calmed her, and she could once again view her accomplishments objectively.
Although still somewhat shabby, Larchside was now clean. Elizabeth had made careful inventory of the manor and the condition of each room and its furnishings. Hangings, upholstery, painting, and wallpapering were needed in every room. Some rooms would also need the hand of a skilled plasterer and one bedroom that of a glazier. It would not be an inexpensive proposition to bring the manor house around, to say nothing of the tenant farms. To what extent did St. Ryne expect her to spend the ready? She chewed her lower lip in thought. It would probably be wise to choose the middle road, still in all, it would be costly.